


In knives and bullets

by badreputation



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Blood and Injury, Getting Together, Handler and agent to friends to lovers, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Profanity, Resolved Sexual Tension, Spies & Secret Agents, Violence, fellas is it gay to share your whiskey with your partner?, fighting as flirting, side ships if you squit extremely hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:06:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24477676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badreputation/pseuds/badreputation
Summary: The attraction is there, alright. The risk, however? Not worth it.Now that Osamu is aware of which strings he can play, he’s content with having Suna as his handler. Even if the bastard is unnerving and infuriating, he’s skilled – knives, guns, rifles, poisons, close combat, incidents, you name it. He knows how to use it all.Who’s a better person he can learn from?For OsaSuna week, day 1, tier 2:ice pops/summer
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 15
Kudos: 247
Collections: OsaSuna Week 2020





	In knives and bullets

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how this started, wrote the last 4k today with 5 songs on a loop.
> 
> **WARNING: Depictions of violence, wounds and blood!**

Osamu’s new handler is nothing like Aran.

Aran was the type to show you who’s boss while keeping you comfortable. A steady hand that might swat the back of your head a bit too sharply when you act up, but gave you a pat where it was due. 

Suna, on the other hand, is a stoic tyrant, tells no jokes, has zero sense of humor and continues to make Osamu feel on edge during every single briefing. Like he’s dealing with a cobra that might just spit poison on him this time around. He spares no second glances, behaves more like a higher-up you really don’t want to piss off, or else. As in, the type of handler nobody wants, yet respects the hell out of because they’re typically the ones who give the most alluring missions.

Being recruited by the Public Security Intelligence Agency was like a dream the first week. The funny thing is, it was an accident. Him and ‘Tsumu just played a practical joke on what happened to be an actual agent, managed to fool him, bypass the security and find out the files were legitimate killing bounties. Instead of making them a part of the ‘Missing’ reports pile, the agency brought them in. It’s still a debt – it’s the only thing that brings money to the table. If they have to lie straight to their parents’ faces about being extremely successful businessmen while being certified assassins, in order to secure their comfort and future, then so be it.

The extra grueling lessons, lectures regarding the cacophony of what the world has become, or hasn’t stopped being, along with combat lessons that left them in a permanently sore state, were well worth it. 

Aran was a blessing as their first handler, after they’d completed the initiation. They’d had him for five years, then got separated. Osamu is now under direct command of Suna Tyrant Rintarou, while ‘Tsumu is a subordinate of the ice prince Kita Shinsuke. 

At least he ain’t the only one suffering.

Suna is like a bad aftertaste to make him regret entering the agency, despite all the shiny shit he gets to use on a daily basis and all the places in the world he can visit for free. 

During the first briefing, during a sweltering summer night, Suna serves Osamu the details while staring at his tablet screen and chewing on an honest to fuck ice pop. Osamu is almost entirely sure it’s an elaborate joke of sorts, to make him lose composure and provide Suna with a reason to reprimand him. If that’s the initial plan behind the behavior, it sucks – he’s just confused about it, keeps a straight face while scrolling through the details on his own tablet.

He soon finds out it’s Suna’s default state.

Today, it’s an identical scenario – green aventurine eyes downcast to the screen, fruit ice pop held in one hand, while he sits on the fancy-schmancy leather armchair with his legs crossed. There’s a lit candle next to him, one of those anti-tobacco ones. It’s kept company by a flamingo cigarette case and a lipstick-shaped lighter.

“You have one shot.”

Slurp.

“If you fuck it up, you’re back to infant errandss.”

‘Infant errands' is the definition of go stand in the corner to think about what you’ve done, only it’s assassin edition and it depends on your handler’s assessment whether you can go back to active duty. You are given things you cannot fuck up, _even_ if you’re stabbed and blindfolded, as a way to ensue agents know how to distinguish appropriate and unsuitable behavior. An effective lesson to injure your pride, maybe mellow you out, but then again that depends on the individual. 

Osamu adapts, ‘Tsumu fumes in private (because one cannot aim a retort at Kita-san a second time and not stay on ‘humiliation missions’, as ‘Tsumu calls them, for a year). 

The reason why Suna put him on infant errands is this: Osamu couldn’t grit his teeth after a job going sour, made a scalding comment regarding Suna’s constant nonchalance. It might have been something along the lines of ‘ _ya incompetent dick, ya almost got me killed!’_ and _'how 'bout I throw_ **_you_ ** _in the fuckin' lake, see how ya like it?_ ' but he can’t truly confirm that, people forget shit all the time. Fickle memories and all that.

The icy smile he was bestowed with is, to this day, one of the most memorable instances of his provocations earning him a near demotion. 

Now they’re in Kyoto, for his first regular job in what feels like centuries. Having to file in reports for the easiest missions he’s had in five years, then hand them to Suna’s gleeful mug is enough degradation in his handler's eyes, it seems. He’s off the hook.

Osamu can’t hide his relief in time to evade Suna catching the metaphorical trail of blood in the ocean.

Their eyes meet, a rare occasion in itself. “I’ve been a field agent six years longer than you. Question me again and next time you and your brother are out on the streets. Am I clear?”

That’s… odd. They’re the same age. Osamu has been in the system for six years, which means Suna must have started at sixteen.

“Yessir.”

How fucked up of a life do you have to live to start assassin school at age sixteen?

✧

The little fact holds strong in his subconscious, an anchor that won’t allow his ship to sail away from the detour. 

Suna is the most laid-back operative Osamu has ever met. His body language is open, his gun is always thrown on the hotel bed, as if it’s a used cloth. He even sits on the windowsills to smoke, making himself the ideal bullseye. Osamu has seen him converse fluidly with a few targets, when the mission requires his assistance as a result of things taking such an unpredicted turn it’s a wonder how they make it through the night. 

His deceptive grins are charming, mastered to make him a trustable person at first glance. As long as he’s feeding the unsuspecting rats his cunning smiles, they’ll inch closer, into Osamu’s range, and—

Bam. 

The easy jobs require his sniper capabilities. The troublesome ones require infiltration, possible flirting to get in proximity and obtain information. Nobody makes them use sex as a tool, but Osamu indulges sometimes. Pretty, willing faces are a nice lay, the two rabbits with one shot type of deal. He can judge only by the lull of their voice if the hypothetical moans are gonna be nice or not, revels in correct guesses. But it’s always been easier with men. 

Suna doesn’t seem to mind either. On the few occasions he does exhibit anything other than detached boredom, he’s raised a champagne glass in Osamu’s direction or slid past him to quickly whisper a ‘bon appetite’ in his ear, right before Osamu slithers away with his target. Sometimes Osamu wonders if it’s a roundabout flirting tactic, but then again, he’d rather not find out.

The attraction is there, alright. The risk, however? Not worth it. 

Now that Osamu is aware of which strings he can play, he’s content with having Suna as his handler. Even if the bastard is unnerving and infuriating, he’s skilled – knives, guns, rifles, poisons, close combat, incidents, you name it. He knows how to use it all. 

Who’s a better person he can learn from?

✧

It takes six month under Suna’s supervision for Osamu to get himself a very intimate date with death. It was supposed to be a quick in, plant the tracker, steal the files and get out, but of course it has to go wrong. It seems they aren’t the only ones with an interest. He spots the agent in the last moment, only the flash of recognition giving away their role. That’s the sole signal that forces Osamu’s body to react by muscle memory, before his mind can process the information.

He ducks in time to only get grazed in his side by the bullet, hears it ricochet in the wall. He’s pressed a hand to the wound, aims and pulls the trigger. The bastard shoots again, while he’s backing away with the files Osamu has to obtain – political enemies and allies, traitors, all in those fucking files.

Osamu chases after him, down the corridor of the work building. The gunshots have already alerted the people in the last-minute meeting. There are now alarmed faces poking out of the conference room.

Osamu shoots the glass in the lower left corner, to make it shatter and startle them enough to buy himself time to escape. 

The second bullet is his own fault. He doesn’t pay attention to his enemy to make sure he’s not seen by the civilians. It incapacitates him almost entirely, goes a little over his hip bone, and exits his body. He’s only able to escape the building and get back to the hotel. His saving grace is the darkness of the winter night.

Him and Suna never share a room. They might be on the same floor most times, in case an emergency beckons them to leave immediately. Even so, Osamu isn’t ‘Tsumu – he’s not dumb enough to think he can handle a large graze wound and a gunshot wound with an exit hole by himself.

He staggers into the lobby, pretends he’s drunk in front of the staff. The ride up the elevator passes by in a blink. Walking down the corridor to Suna’s room is a whole other story. He kicks the door several times, might have slurred out an ‘it’s me’ or something, he’s not entirely aware of his surroundings.

Shock is a weird expression on Suna. It makes him look younger by several years, almost as if he’s your ordinary citizen, clearly aghast to see the big blood stain in Osamu’s dark blue suit. Only no civilian would be able to spot it unless they’re looking for it. 

“Got away.” Osamu spits out, staggers into the room. “The bastard took the fuckin’ files. Shit.”

The last thing he recalls is Suna catching and dragging him to the bed. 

Then, all-consuming pain and finally, darkness.

He resurfaces a few times, shaking, with the mild dose of fear forcing his brain to activate his senses. Each and every time Suna tells him to go back to sleep. Osamu complies.

The room is dim. He's on the verge of closing his eyes again, the sticky fingers of slumber urge his lids to drop.

"You're lucky Oomimi-san was in the city. Or you would have bled out on my bed and I would have had to hide your body somewhere." 

Osamu twists his head on the pillow in a controlled roll, towards the figure sitting in the armchair by the window. That, at least, is familiar.

Suna plucks on the lamp at the small coffee table next to him. Not that it helps Osamu in any way - his face is even, betrays no emotion, not even a hint of anger or a stray indicator of prissiness. The epitome of a blank canvas. 

He flicks his zippo open, snaps it closed. Osamu lies on the bed in wait for the verdict. 

"He got away." Suna says.

Osamu hums, willing his eyes to stay open. The painkillers they’ve given him are doing a wonderful job of keeping him incapacitated along with their initial application. 

"But I managed to get the files back." 

Ah, another "Missing" report in the pile then. Just your typical day. Did he use poison this time? The last occurrence of Suna getting involved resulted in a close combat knife action, one that Osamu will never admit made his pants a lil bit tighter. There's something about the ease of his strikes that mesmerises Osamu to this day.

"You're to stay here until you can move properly, then you'll get a ticket back to Japan. Oomimi-san is going to knock four times on this door every day, around 4pm, to examine the wounds. You leave only when you get a green light from him."

Osamu coughs, wrings out a pathetic whisper of "Yessir" out of his throat. 

Suna watches him, maybe to give Osamu ample time to question his judgement. 

"You owe me." 

Osamu had held onto the threadbare hope that wouldn't be the case. Alas.

"I know."

The smile that appears is not one to have graced Suna's face in his presence before. It's not the hoax he presents to their targets, nor is it the cruel thing he'd aimed at Osamu upon his temper tantrum. 

Needless to say, even if the guy is his handler Osamu doesn't trust him. He thinks nothing of it.

✧ 

He’s out of the hotel in a week. Oomimi says he’ll take care of any issues regarding the dried blood left on the mattress, along with the countless sheets Osamu had bled through. The recovery of the bullet wound with the exit hole takes him another month. He's lucky it went through his lower abdomen, near his right hip, so there were no perforated organs by it. A centimeter off and his guts would have suffered, Oomimi wouldn't have been able to do shit without a surgery room at his disposal. 

'Tsumu doesn't stop with the concern he hides behind vile comments and depreciation for the entire duration of his down time. 

Osamu manages to get a hold of one of Oomimi’s presumable phone numbers, forces his accent to not protrude as much, to sound as professional as possible and not like an ungrateful asswipe. 

“I wanted to thank you in person, Oomimi-san, but I doubt it’s a popular custom.” Oomimi hums. “I know you’re aware of it. I wanted to say it either way: I owe you. Thank you for involving yourself in something you could have chosen to slip past you.”

This is the first time Osamu has lowered his head in such a manner. Very few agents like giving somebody a free card, a bloody _favour_ they can’t choose when to return and pay the consequences, because rarely are they called out at an appropriate time. If you don’t follow through you risk slipping in ranks - fellow agents will stop trusting your word, it’ll take years to rebuild what name you have made for yourself.

However, Osamu not running from the inevitable turn of events can play a major role in what that favour will consist of. Some make it a petty and near impossible job just to get back at selfish nitwits. He’ll do anything to avoid that.

“Good to know he was right about you.” is the answer he receives, like Oomimi was waiting for this to happen. “Take care, Osamu-kun.” he cuts the line.

He? Is he talking about Suna?

Speaking of, two favours in less than two months. He’s fucked.

✧ 

During the briefing for his next mission, after he’s passed the allotted physical tests, Suna tells him to wear a bullet vest, raising his eyebrows when Osamu's mouth opens in an unmistakable protest.

Suna hears his complaint without him even voicing it.

"Then avoid getting shot where it counts."

And that's that. It's like a milder version of infant errands. He should be glad he's not reduced to that again, seeing as Suna doesn't really give a shit about his ego.

It becomes a joke and an unexpected show of Suna's inner world, possibly even a trickster nature making the horns on his infuriating head grow five times bigger. 

Just as he’s about to leave to prepare, Suna begins tapping his fingers onto the coffee table in a rhythm that might be one of those new pop songs playing nonstop on the radio.

"Target is supposed to have dinner at 9, to meet with a client. I take it you won't get shot on the roof?"

Osamu's poker face suffers a tiny crack with his eyes twitching for a split second.

Suna waves his hand for an impudent bye-bye.

That bastard.

✧ 

The first time he witnesses Suna’s genuine smile, Osamu has a disgusting day in Paris: his target is some slimy, old man, with a thing for ‘youngsters’ and he had to stay in the vicinity of that bag of shit for two hours. Afterwards some German agent decides to sprout out of nowhere and almost makes him drown in the mansion pool (to be fair, Osamu almost drowned him as well, two times) only for it to turn out that they were on the same side in this instance.

It would be a dramatic movie sequence, with the sun having set and in its place multiple neon projectors illuminate the mansion, the garden surrounding it, the large pool and the man made pond in the vicinity. Everything is bathed in violet, carmine, pink and blue. This was supposed to be a ginormous party for fancy fuckers who like giving their money for the wrong things. Now it’s trashed and tarnished, with the rows of tables in complete disarray, broken ceramic and glass littering the stone ground. There’s a few beheaded topiaries here and there, a littered shoe or two, along with eight incapacitated bodyguards (the other five ran away). 

Suna and his colleague stand at the edge of the pool, hands in the pockets of their slack, just as Osamu had taken out a knife and was a moment away from landing a lethal blow to the jugular vein. The German handler claps his palms together, in a slow manner, as if he’s just had a wonderful Cirque du soleil performance. 

The second agent’s head snaps in his handler’s direction. He throws Osamu one last glare, a nod holding not a lick of courtesy, before swimming back to the edge and getting out. The German handler shares an amused look with Suna, pats him on the shoulder before turning on his heel.

He bellows out a snort when his subject mutters something under his nose while shaking the water out of his dress shoes. Osamu catches the handler calling the agnet an idiot for not noticing the signs.

Those shits have been watching them from the start. What is it with cocky handlers? Is it a requirement they have to fill before they’re given the job?

Osamu imagines Suna writing a text to some handler group chat, ‘Ohoho, last week I let my subordinates almost tear each other’s throats out! A bonus ten points for that, perhaps?’

“There’s a perfect bathtub in the hotel, you know.” Suna takes out his flamingo cigarette case. The lighter is in the shape of a-- of a fucking toilet. He lights one while holding eye contact with Osamu.

The smoke drifts around his head, a gray cloud that attains multiple shades of neon as the projectors continue to flicker before the colours blend into one another. He doesn’t help Osamu out of the pool, but:

The corners of Suna’s eyes crinkle, the glint in them, as well as the lights reflecting from his pearly teeth penetrate the foundation of Osamu’s inner desire. The smile isn't cruel or as biting as Siberian winds in the winter. It’s saturated with mischief and playfulness. 

They never had a standard relationship to begin with, did they?

✧ 

Later on, Osamu finds out the role of the ice pops.

“I’m trying to quit.” is Suna’s answer, one year into him being Osamu’s handler.

They’re sitting on the hotel terrace, on the opposite sides of the table. It’s four in the morning and for the third time this month, they barely made it out alive. 

“Kinda counterproductive with the cigarette you’re currently smokin’.” Osamu brings his glass of whiskey to his mouth, knuckles stinging from the fresh cuts littering them. His face isn’t faring better. They should have taken care of the wounds first, then indulge in their shitty habits.

The shift in their relationship was organic, happened with time. It wasn’t a ‘you saved me in a dire situation, now I respect you more’, nor was it a quick jump from one stone to another. Spending a lot of time with somebody does that to you - you’ll either hate each other’s guts with a passion strong enough to make you fight the itch to land a bullet or ten. Or you’ll find a balance, get used to it, accept it as a part of your life and let the fates decide whether they want to pit you against each other.

The past three months, Suna has had to involve himself many times. Their enemies require a bigger arrangement of forces to be taken down. They’ve sparred on a few occasions, when Suna is in the mood to give lessons - which knife is more effective for what body part, how to slip poison to even the most paranoid individuals, how to obtain easy information with charming smiles and body language alone and the like.

Some of the shit he already knew, but the majority of it? It hadn’t even been covered during his and ‘Tsumu’s educational process. 

“The system used to be more brutal before. But in the end, you came out as a certified killer with an armory of knowledge. In order to protect your country.” is was what Suna had told him, the first time Osamu had the balls to ask him a question directly.

Currently, they’re equally rumpled and bloody, still in their formal suits. The view of silent waves of the sea of Crete is further brightened by the half moon. The salt in the air does wonders to help winding down, but then again, of all the places he’s been to, Greece is one of his favourite destinations. Not to mention that the food is nice, possibly equal to his love for Korean dishes, but nothing tops good ‘ol traditional meals. He wouldn’t mind a hearty bowl of oyakodon in this very moment.

“Ice pops help?”

“Ish. Not the nicotine addiction, but the oral fixation. Gives my mind something to do unconsciously.”

Osamu hasn’t missed how after ice pops Suna doesn’t light up for longer periods of time, has increased the duration of going without with every passing month. They’ve been in Greece all week and out of the pack of 20 there’s only five cancer sticks missing. Seems that lighting one after a job well done is a habit yet to be kicked.

“I think the whiskey got me a lil, so I’ll be frank with ya. I wanna ask a question ya might not like.” 

“I’m gonna regret this.” Suna twirls the cigarette in the crystal ashtray to make the ash into a pointed tip. “Fine.”

Osamu isn’t stupid enough to outright ask. He can’t risk getting Suna pissed or even worse, make him withdraw after Osamu has finally started liking the guy. See, as Suna learned of Osamu’s capabilities he put him on less infant errands, the mutual respect grew and Osamu has actually gotten away with a lot of words. That won’t stand if he steps on the wrong parcel of Suna’s memories. In rare cases, he manages to fuck up and kick a mine. Last time it took Suna half a month to lose the cold look. 

“Why’d you enter the system at age sixteen?”

Suna was recruited by Kita, five years older than him, but already a respected agent. That’s all the info anybody of Osamu’s status is privy to.

Suna lights a second cigarette. Either way, it doesn’t look like Osamu crossed a line. Goosebumps form on Suna’s bare elbows and neck.

“I killed a man to protect my sister. She died the same day anyway. Kita-san was at the right place at the right time and I’d just secured him the files he’d been after for weeks.”

He takes a long drag until his cheeks are entirely hollowed out, holds in the smoke. His hand flinches and he almost drops the cigarette. The exhale is unsteady, from holding back the emotions and putting the safe containing his anguish and torment on full lockdown. 

His voice is low when he starts, “Tell anybody about this and--”

“You’ll personally put a bullet in my head. Yea, I know.”

Osamu glances down at his glass, tilts it to one side to watch the amber liquid slosh. Suna takes it when he offers it a moment later, downs it in one go. Osamu goes back to the mini fridge to pour them both another one. Suna is done with his cigarette by then. 

He doesn’t thank him, just rests his elbow on the glass surface of the table, lower arm extended towards him. Osamu clinks the butt of his glass into the rim of Suna’s, the sharp sound carried away by the breeze.

✧ 

“Rise and shine, muffin.”

Those are the words Osamu wakes up to, at 6 in the morning, with Suna barging into his bedroom like he owns the place. 

“ _What the fuck is wrong with you!_ ” Osamu reacts on a twisted instinct that forces his hands to pull his blanket up to his chin, to cover his bare chest, rather than take out the glock from under his pillow. 

Suna is wearing civilian clothes - black hoodie, dark blue jeans and a leather jacket -with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

“Pack your shit, we’re going on a road trip.” is what he tells him, but when he lifts his phone to Osamu’s face, the message is entirely different.

‘There’s a breach in the system and your place might be bugged. We’re going to a safe house. Don’t act out of character for a normal citizen and don’t ask me where we’re going.’

Osamu catches his eyes, nods, then dashes out of the bed. 

“How am I supposed ta pack when ya didn’t tell me shit, huh? What if I have work in the morning?”

“You’re fine. I know your schedule.”

Suna helps him shove the bare amount of essentials. Osamu has two minutes to wash his face and brush his teeth while he’s gathering his toothpaste, along with any hidden weapon he has in the bathroom. They’re done in ten minutes, out of the genkan on the eleventh. Osamu’s apartment building is big, but it also has a personal garage.

Suna’s taken the shittiest Toyota Corolla 2000 that he could get his hands on, definitely has legitimate documents (that are anything but) for it. Once inside, Suna spews out a string of curses after he starts the car and dashes out of the building’s garage. 

“Your parents were given tickets they ‘won’ - a two week trip to a resort-safe house so they don’t become an easy target. Your brother is with Kita-san. I was ordered to take you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t have a family.”

Translation: I don’t have liabilities like you and your twin.

“Transfer any valuable shit from your phone and throw it out the window.”

Albeit with his teeth grit, Osamu does as commanded, deletes any traces he’s left on the internet, any stray data that might be found by inquisitive shits, then watches from the rearview mirror as the phone collides with the pavement and shatters into pieces.

There’s no music for the ride. It’s almost 10 in the morning when they reach a secluded property, after driving through a tiny road that made Osamu sure they’ll topple down the hill. The house is a mix of traditional and western style, not too big but relatively spacey. There’s enough food for two months at least.

“And how long are we gonna stay here?”

Suna doesn’t even look his way, starts the rice cooker and takes out a skillet. He doesn’t ask Osamu if he has preferences. Osamu observes him chop scallions to add to the omelets he makes for both of them, with crispy, golden crusts. What if Osamu had an allergy? 

Then again, Suna has higher clearance _and_ is his handler. He knows every detail about Osamu - from his food allergies (none), to his taste in women and men (bigger inclination towards men), along with how many times he’s broken either one of his limbs (a total of 6 times, not counting fractures) and what his grades were in school (shitty).

“You and Atsumu were cleared because you were on missions with me and Kita-san respectively during the time of the breach. You can’t have been fighting and shooting while also hacking the multiple walls of the database.”

And here comes the threat. In three, two, one:

“If I find out you were affiliated with the traitors in any way, your existence will become miserable beyond your imagination. You’ll never see your family again and I’ll make you live a long life of regrets.” the calm tone of a skilled veteran. Osamu has no doubt he’ll stay true to his word, fulfil every detail.

At what age did he learn that? Was he a natural at it too?

“Did they give y’all old schools some handbooks in assassin classes? Or did they hand them out as pamphlets for the graduation ceremony?”

A knife lands a centimeter away from his hand, vibrates in place from the impact before settling. Suna is looking straight at him, having shifted his head to gaze over his shoulder. The detached eyes tell Osamu just how fast he can turn the situation with another audacious word.

“D’ya think I’m dumb enough to go against the agency that knows every detail of my life, along with the exact whereabouts of my family? Especially when I owe shit to people in the highest of ranks?”

Suna holds his gaze for an infinite amount of time, the alarming feeling that he might be falling into a trance makes a shiver of distress lick up his spine. His shoulders drop when Suna looks away, blows air out of his mouth quietly and rubs the knuckle of his thumb under his lower lip.

They eat in silence. Osamu pretends he doesn’t notice Suna’s eyes on him for the entire duration of the meal. He doesn’t want to experience that ominous, phantom sensation of being doped with a sedative just by holding another person’s eyes.

They only eat breakfast together, take turns in making it. Osamu takes the free time to write the tedious reports he’d been avoiding. He annoys the shit out of Suna until he gets ‘Tsumu, then his parents on the phone. His story is an impromptu trip with a friend, meanwhile ‘Tsumu is at a ski resort with some high school buddies. 

Osamu has met Kita-san on a few occasions, but at this very moment he wouldn’t mind switching places with ‘Tsumu. As long as he doesn’t feel like he’s haunted, even if him and Suna rarely share one room.

On the fourth day, a monsoon decides to grace wherever the fuck in Japan they are. They’re forced to stay indoors, with barely anything to do, especially since Suna made him destroy his laptop as well, and handed him a brand new one like he produces those things with the power of his mind.

He doesn’t count that out as a possibility.

Naturally, the sexual tension is an imminent scene of the play. As agents they aren’t exactly forbidden to have relationships with fellow colleagues. However, handler and agent relationships are strongly frowned upon, to say the least, even if they’re only physical. Seeing as a handler’s job is to assure the agent has everything at their disposal to finish the job, then fix them up if they get injured, secure a ride home and even get involved in the mission if needed, it’s counterproductive to let such a clinical affiliation sprout strong emotions.

People die quite often in their line of work. Osamu isn’t even sure he’ll make it past 30.

He doesn’t act upon his body’s desires, maintains professional distance, trains hard enough to wring out any excess energy and smother the want by not allotting himself time to think about anything other than work.

After the two weeks are over, during which Osamu has been witness to a few shitshow conference calls, they can go back. The threats were hunted down and executed or sent who knows where. That’s certainly not Osamu’s division. He’d like to keep it that way. Now comes the time of endless tests to segregate any remaining traitors, if any, and make it certain that the operatives under the wing of the agency are well aware of the consequences. In case they decide to take an enemy’s offered hand.

✧ 

Osamu having been cleared (and probably vouched for) from the start adds up to his fast climb up the ladder. In a little over half a year him and ‘Tsumu take such a leap in ranks that they’re constantly watching out for the gunshot that’s gonna topple them down.

✧ 

“You do know that sometimes in our agency a handler and an agent form a duo, because some of us have been agents before shifting to another title.”

That’s an unusual start to the conversation.

“Is that a marriage proposition?”

Suna looks up from his tablet just to scowl at him.

They’re sitting on a bench in the Nara park, with tourists milling about, oblivious to two killers in plain sight. They had to move a few times because as cute as the deer are, Osamu just wanted to finish his food in peace.

“No, it’s a work together proposition. The last few months have migrated from you going alone on the scene to me having to join as backup despite being the handler. It’s too risky, people have stepped up their game. Might as well make us an official team when we work well together.”

“So, a marriage proposal.”

Suna steps on his running shoe.

“ _Motherfu_ \--” a woman’s head snaps in his direction, hands having flown to her child’s ears instantly. Her glare can make even the bravest of men falter. 

Suna snorts. “Oops. You were saying?”

He’s munching on his red ice pop, no lingering scent of cigarettes on him. The summer heat would have kept it fresh on his clothes. His mouth is a cherry red, goes well with his aviator sunglasses.

“I’ll think about it.”

✧ 

He gets a call from Oomimi one cold, late afternoon, with rain pelting outside. It hasn’t stopped for hours.

Osamu knows what he’s going to say.

“How can I return the favour, Oomimi-san?”

Suna lands on his doorstep two hours later. Oomimi hands Osamu a duffle bag, stirs Suna in the direction of the kitchen. He makes tea for two, but leaves soon after. Not before telling Osamu to keep an eye on his handler, then dashing out after he says he has some things to take care of. 

“There’s something I didn’t tell you.” Suna’s eyes stare into nothing. He’s dressed all in black, cradling the cup of tea with his pale fingers. Osamu doubts it’s makeup with his face just as ghost-like. “I had a partner, before I became a handler.”

Osamu’s face is even.

“He’d been a double agent for China. We worked together for four years. I found out by a mistake he’d made, one of many, finally took it up to the higher ups to confirm whether I was imagining it or not. He tried to execute me, stabbed me twice when that didn’t work and fled.”

“He found you again, didn’t he?”

Suna nods. “I killed him. He couldn’t hold his balance, slipped from the edge of the roof but he managed to hold onto it.”

His eyes narrow, something dark passes over them, a shadow that saturates further and further with each passing second.

“I stepped on his fingers, watched him realise he can’t use any past familiarity between us to get out of it like he did last time. And I reveled in it. Seeing the horror.” he bites at his lower lip, the black cloud lifting, replaced by the worst enemy of a person in their profession - the crippling guilt that maybe it wasn't the right call.

“How long did you recover?”

Suna’s head shakes in a barely noticeable manner, “Huh?”

“How long did you recover from those stabs?”

“Almost half a year.”

“So he landed death blows?”

“Yeah.”

“Then in conclusion, he didn’t wanna spare ya by _makin’_ it look like he tried ta do the job. He was actively tryin’a kill ya. In case the execution shot wasn’t a good enough pointer you somehow missed.”

At times like these, Osamu tends to forget Suna is of higher status. So many instances where he’s been treated as an equal have gone to his head.

He doesn’t know how to give comfort. Him and ‘Tsumu always resolve their shit with fists and hurtful words. What he’s gathered along the way is that you either use humor or say nothing, when dealing with other people. 

“Well, I know ya don’t miss. I don’t miss either. So, waddaya say?” Osamu lifts his tea cup like he would a toast. “In knives and bullets, to bicker with and spar, ‘till death does us apart.”

_I won’t make you suffer by letting you live if history repeats itself, and I know you’ll give me the same courtesy._

Suna is so conflicted, his eyes dart between Osamu’s gaze and the lifted cup with an astonishingly open face. Osamu waits for him, shakes the cup. Suna brings the butt of his own cup to the rim of Osamu’s, connects them with a clink. 

The downpour outside softens the sound.

✧ 

“‘Samu, ya piece of shit, ya played me!” Atsumu screams in his ear upon finding out the news. “It’s not fair, we’ve been agents for the same amount of time, how come _you_ get a promotion like that first?”

Osamu looks at the open window. He shouldn’t throw the phone, it’s his third one this year already, after actually drowning once, then having lost the other two during chases.

“Yea, well, ask Kita-san. He might give his blessing that you and Gin become a duo, seeing as Aran is with Oomimi-san.”

The pitiful whine has him inch closer to the window to peer down, “I wanna be with Kita-san.” 

“Tuff luck then.”

“Fuck ya, ‘Samu. Congrats.” it’s not a sassy retort when he congratulates him, his brother means it. 

✧ 

“We have to go undercover as a gay couple in Rome?”

Suna shrugs, this time lying on the bed. They’re in a fancy hotel in the heart of Tokyo and in the morning they have to drive to the airport. Osamu was hoping for Greece, with its aquamarine beaches. 

“Yup. You owe me.”

They spend the majority of the night practising the story, along with the behaviour they are to exhibit. The flight is terrible, he barely has a wink of sleep, puts up a front that it’s the jet lag playing with his nerves, rather than them having to spend a week in close proximity, possibly display PDA, might even have to kiss and grope Suna. 

Osamu isn’t opposed to those things, in fact he’d love to get some on the job. Just not with Suna. It doesn’t matter that they’re partners now, they need to keep certain walls erected. Er, bad wording. 

_The point is_ , it’s a shitty idea.

‘Tsumu had laughed in his face, before Osamu had left for Tokyo. “Our entire lives are founded on bad ideas and ya decide to give a fuck _now_?” was what he’d told him between the hysterical bouts of laughter.

They attend a banquet the first night in Rome. Osamu bites his tongue upon seeing Suna with his hair slicked back, dressed in a burgundy red suit, tailored to his body to show off his small waist and wide shoulders. They meet their targets fairly early into the night, converse with the wife and husband. 

Stealing the files and planting false ones might pose a bit of a problem. The wife, Luciana, is calculating, steers the conversations where she wants to, doesn't condone things being swept under the carpet. She’s the intelligent one. Her husband fills the silences with stupid jokes that Suna eggs on.

On the third day they find themselves invited to the mansion. They sit outside, near the pool. Osamu has flashbacks of that day in Paris. He’s been reluctant to step in an onsen since then.

“Ah, so you are married, yes?” the wife, for the first time, throws a smile - knowing and deviant.

Osamu’s hand lands on Suna’s thigh, the one with the golden ring, like they’d practised and he squeezes the flesh under his fingers. “Quite some time now. But we can’t really flaunt it back in Japan.” 

His Italian is so stiff and rocky that it’s a wonder they understand him.

Suna leans in closer to him.

Luciana’s eyes briefly flicker to the whereabouts of Osamu’s hand. “My brother Emanuele is like you. It’s nice to see other people able to be happy with who they love, at least in one part of the world.”

Oh no, just not the L word. ‘Tsumu has been singing it to him for the past year. He’s been working with Suna for close to three years, with the last two being a collection of myriads upon myriads of self-control lessons that have forged him into a master of evasion. 

He ain’t in love. 

He _can’t_ be in love.

Luciana and Suna get on well, birds of a feather and all that. With the plan having progressed smoothly, they’ve managed to make her warm up to them, which in turn makes the husband even more talkative. 

Osamu has barely taken into account the amount of toppled fences between him and Suna, under the circumstances. They’re more tactile than Osamu has ever been with another person, sexually and publically. Suna has the habit of dragging his fingers up and down his back when he’s talking to other people, as well as pressing their thighs together when they sit, making Osamu worry if his want is too evident by the temperature of his skin. 

They get an opportunity to extract the files earlier than expected, at another banquet that Friday. The midnight blue suit is a notch more bearable, still a treat with how it is once again tailored; it makes Suna’s skin and eyes pop out. 

Osamu does his tie in front of the mirror while Suna yet again slicks his hair back. Maybe dark purple isn’t such a bad colour on him.

Suna steps out of the bathroom, assistive eyes going up his entire body. He reaches out to tilt the knot of the tie a smidge. Their eyes meet.

The shiver is instantaneous. The dim light ain’t helping one bit. It’s so easy to corner him to the wall and take every article of clothing off his fit frame. Oh so easy to take the spoon and dig in, indulge in the tastes and undertones. He only entertains the idea, steps to the side to put on the watch with a hidden communicator.

“Ya ready to get this over with?”

Suna hums. Osamu allows himself to shut his eyes and revel in the second shiver. Just for a few seconds.

✧ 

They have to get to the study, on the second floor of the mansion, only the bodyguards are double the number they were last time. The guests are also a lot more this time around, which at least works in their favor.

More than ten people flirt with Osamu, despite him introducing Suna as his husband. They get seven propositions, to think over if they want more company. Suna’s lips tightening is the only confirmation he’s holding in his grin at Osamu’s incredulity. 

On the eighth suggestion Osamu bites out, “Thank you. But I don’t share.”

If anything, that seems to excite the lady even more. She smiles, still flirtatious, but backs down with grace. “If you ever change your mind.” and hands him an elegant business card. She waves a goodbye, merges with the sea of people.

“My, my, possessive, aren’t we?”

Luciana materializes as if out of thin air, half of her dark hair pinned to the crown of her head with a gleaming pin, the remainder thrown over one shoulder. Her golden eyeliner and dress make her out to be more of a celestial being, rather than, apparently, an all knowing human.

Suna snickers and the asshole manages to do that in a sophisticated manner too. “I don’t like sharing either.” his hand sneaks around his waist, fingers tracing the way before settling at Osamu’s hip.

Coincidently, it's the place that one bullet hit him, more than two years ago.

Luciana’s laughter is bright, rings like tiny bells and is overall genuine. She glances at the stairs leading to the second floor.

“I don’t think my husband will notice you leaving for a bit.” like the last woman to flirt with them before she arrived, Luciana waves her hand and turns on her heels with a final suggestive look.

“Well, darling, I think that was a carde blanche for us to fuck in her mansion.” Suna whispers in his ear, and tugs him in direction of the stairs.

They’re too close during the trek up, stop a few times to murmur the details of the plan with their heads together, as if they’re lovers giving each other details of what they want on the menu today. The bodyguards let them pass.

If they happen to wander into the study that has the laptop they need to hack into, well, coincidences happen every day.

Osamu stands at the door, in case a lonely soul or the hosts of the banquet themselves wander down the hallway. Just as he thinks they’ll get away with it fairly easily, the unmistakable sound of heels on carpet graces his ears.

He taps the toe of his shoe lightly into the floor, three times. Suna’s fingers up the pace, pull out the flash device and shut down the laptop. He joins Osamu on the other side of the desk when they’re supposed to leave through the window, what the fu--

“Shut up.”

Suna throws his suit jacket on the floor, pushes Osamu to sit on the sturdy desk to throw one leg over his lap and sit on his thighs, then he’s kissing him. Osamu’s hand automatically lands on his hip, the other on the back of his head as his brain catches up to the plan. Suna tastes of rich red wine, with a fruity undertone of the ice pop he had before they got here. He twists his tongue into Osamu’s mouth when the door slams open.

Suna doesn’t stop, tugs at Osmau’s tie.

“Oh.”

It’s Luciana. She’s actually surprised about them sucking face. So she didn’t trust them after all.

Suna’s head twists to look back, eyes wide with his palms still on Osamu. He heaves out an overly relieved sigh. “Ah, it’s just miss Luciana.”

Luciana’s eyebrows twitch, calculating eyes doing the math. “Sorry.” she laughs, demeanor altering in a split second. “The boys didn’t know I’d given you permission. I thought it was an uninvited guest.”

Suna hops off his lap, takes his suit jacket from the floor and dusts it off. 

“Maybe if you could continue this is another room? My husband won’t be overly fond of, ah, _that_ happening here.” she waves her hand in direction of the corridor. 

“Actually,” Suna starts. “we might take it home.” the private smile he bestows Osamu with renders him speechless even further. “We’re sorry for the intrusion.” and he takes Osamu by the wrist.

Luciana glances at the closed laptop, then loses her edge entirely upon seeing Osamu’s face up close.

“You’re welcome again!” her voice follows them. 

The first time he hears Suna laugh is when they enter the sleek car given to them for the mission. It starts out of nowhere, then Suna is curling into himself, arms around his abdomen. His forehead slams into the wheel, right against the horn and sartles them both. At this point Oasmu joins in.

It takes them fifteen minutes and a few more fits of laughter for it all to pass so they can start the car and leave. Once back in the hotel, however, the elevator ride fills with tension and spills when they’re in their room.

“I know it’s not only sexual.” Suna tells him, once he’s locked the door. “You would have acted out on it when we were in the safe house, during the system breach. Or taken any of the other opportunities I gave you, for that matter.”

“Was your partner your lover?”

“No. Raidou was never more than a colleague.”

Osamu turns around, to face him. The only light is from the tall, pretty lamp outside of the hotel. 

“I’m not your handler anymore.”

“But we’re fuckin’ partners.”

Suna takes the three steps that separate them, pushes Osamu to sit on the bed with easy hands on his shoulders. He keeps his palms there, squeezes the muscles under the dark violet suit jacket. Osamu pulls him in when he straddles his thighs again. 

“Agency’s big enough to switch. And don’t you remember?” Suna whispers against his lips with his fingers burying themselves into Osamu’s hair. “In knives and bullets, to bicker with and spar, ‘till death does us apart.” 

“That was a bit dramatic, was tryin’a lift the mood at the time.”

“Too late. The wedding vows have been said.”

Well, Suna did technically do a marriage proposition with the partners thing.

✧ 

They go out on the terrace in typical four in the morning practice, after three mind blowing rounds. It’s been one year since Rome. Suna still gives him that cute lil smile and grants Osamu the privilege of hearing his just as cute laughter, when the moment arises. He also lets the tips of Osamu’s fingers trace scars, old and new, stab wounds, bullet holes and love bites alike.

They share an ice pop and a drink while staring at the sea of Crete, illuminated by the round moon. The summer breeze is a light caress on their heated skin.

Osamu tilts his glass, Suna clinks the butt of his own into the rim of his. The ring of the sound is as crisp as their grins.

“In knives and bullets.” they say and take a sip.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Here's my [Twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/inarizakistan) if anybody wants to gush about Sunaosa/Inarizaki with me!


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